


Between the burning shade and the fading light

by RemainNameless



Series: Starts with "F", Ends with "U" [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, Blood and Gore, Dark, Guns, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Minor Character Death, Violence, Wolfsbane Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final sequel after "You hollow out my hungry eyes"</p><p>Peter's appearance, as per usual, doesn't do anyone any good. The night doesn't go quite as anyone planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the burning shade and the fading light

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A SEQUEL, IF YOU ARE NEW
> 
> ok so i'm kind of really emotional right now, so i just want to first thank everyone everyone EVERYONE for reading, for putting up with me, for helping me out with this behemoth. you are all superstars and i love you. for realsies. 
> 
> anywayyyyyyyy WARNINGS....there's like WAY more violence/gore in this chapter than in any other, and there's blood and gunshot trauma and yeah. nothing's SUPER detailed, but it's very much there fyi. it's, like, on the level of supernatural. also, like several other chapters, there's implied pedophilic urges. also, one brief instance of a verbal threat of rape by a non-human. that happens. and that's all folks!! :O

“Get him out,” Stiles says, and he’s not entirely sure who he’s talking to. Not his dad, because there’s no way he wants his dad and Peter within five feet of each other, but probably not Derek, either, because he’s not sure what they used to be like, but the last time he saw Peter and Derek in a direct confrontation, Derek ended up dragging himself over broken glass and submitting. That’s not really what Stiles is going for, to say the least. He just wants Peter _gone_.

“You know, you don’t actually have to invite me in for me to be able to cross your threshold,” Peter says as he steps inside, around Derek. 

“Get the _hell_ out,” Stiles snaps at him. “I am _so_ not in the mood to deal with your bullshit tonight. My bullshit limit has been reached, and you do _not_ want to test me right now.”

His dad’s hand grabs his shoulder, holding him back. “Wait.” He steps between Stiles and Peter, which is the _opposite_ of where Stiles wants him to be. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” his dad says, holding out a hand, which Peter is _all_ over. 

Too fucking bad for him, because his dad twists, jabs something into Peter’s forearm with his other hand. 

“The Argents send their regards,” his dad says as Peter rips back his sleeve, showing black veins. Stiles mentally fist bumps himself for telling his dad about Game of Thrones because _obviously_ that was a great decision. But then Peter kind of crumples against the side of the couch and maybe they’ve got a situation here.

“He’s not going to die, is he?” Stiles asks quickly. “Because we really need to get him out of here. And that’ll be a lot easier if he’s alive.”

“Chris said it would just be enough to incapacitate him for a few hours before his body can filter it out.” 

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face. “A few _hours_? That’s not good.” Peter’s probably only about ten percent conscious, fallen mostly onto the couch, and Derek’s just standing there, staring at him, like everything’s a little too much to process. Not good — Stiles is going to need him to deal with this. 

“I’ve got an antidote, but I’m not using it until he’s tied up or _something_.” There’s a little black goo at the corner of Peter’s mouth which is _gross_ , but totally beside the point. They need to _do something_ with him. And tying him up is really not an option. 

“We can’t have him around here,” Stiles says. “Just— I dunno, just watch him or something. I need to make a call. I’ve got someone who’ll want to deal with this.” 

“You _do_ know that I’m still the parent, right?” his dad asks, giving him a look. 

“I appreciate that, but right now, we’ve got a possible very bad situation on our hands because _this asshole_ decided to show up. I just want to make sure he doesn’t bring everything down on us, and to _do that_ , we need to get him _out_ of here.”

His dad grabs his upper arm, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep him from squirming away. “Why’s it so important that we get him out of here? He’s not dangerous right now.”

“Because he just _can’t be here_. I can’t give you any more than that, but _trust me_ , okay? I just need you to trust me right now. I’m doing the best I can.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s better than the alternative. I don’t want to know what could happen if he’s here a second longer than he needs to be.” He looks at Derek, who seems to be in the process of shaking himself out of everything. “He was supposed to be the bait, but not _here_ , this is going to—”

His phone starts ringing, _Killer Queen_ , which means one person. 

Stiles answers the phone as he escapes into the living room, with a “I’ve got Peter here right now.”

“ _That’s probably why it’s happening tonight_ ,” Lydia says, half-resigned, even though the moon is a couple days away. 

“Are you sure? Are we ready?”

“ _We don’t have much of a choice,_ ” she tells him. “ _I found myself in the woods near the old Hale place, and I’m telling you, it’s happening tonight._ Something _’s happening tonight, at least_. _Now, what was that about Peter? Can you move him?”_

Stiles looks at the wall separating him from Peter, feels Derek move into the room. “I think so. I have to do something about my dad, though. But we’ll bring Peter to you, yeah? That’s where it happens?”

“ _It has to be. I was worried this might happen, so I’ve been keeping what we need in my car. I’ve got more than enough mountain ash to hold him_.”

“We’ll be there soon,” Stiles tells her and hangs up.

When he turns, Derek’s face is tired and heavy, like the shock is starting to wear off. Post-adrenaline lows are the worst, Stiles knows. 

“We need to move. I can’t have a confrontation with him and my dad. It’s just not going to happen. So we need to get Peter out of here.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “You think he’d come after Peter?”

“It’s….” Stiles drops his voice as soft as it’ll go, glancing at the other room, “I think I might have convinced Rafa that Peter is not only a psychokiller but has a thing for me. He’s been gunning for Peter since, but no one’s really been able to _find_ him. And now he’s _here_. And I’m not convinced that Rafa isn’t watching the house somehow. I wouldn’t put it past him, anyway, and we have to _assume_ he is or we’re fucked if he turns out to be. Because if he is, he’s got you, Peter, and me all in one place. That’s not going to end well. For anyone. Especially because my dad is here.”

“We’re doing this at the house, then.”

Stiles winces. “I…You weren’t supposed to be coming with. I just don’t want you to be alone right now, but I could drop you off at Scott’s or—”

“ _I’m coming_.”

“Alright,” Stiles says. “If you’re sure. I don’t want you to have to go back there again if you don’t want to. I didn’t _want_ this to happen there, but you know Lydia’s whole thing.” 

There’s a lot of blood spilled there already, people Derek’s lost there. He shouldn’t have to go back if he doesn’t want to.

“It’s fine. He already died there anyway. It’s where he belongs,” Derek says, and Stiles isn’t really sure about which time he means. Which time he burned. 

“I’m sorry. About your loft, I mean.” 

Derek looks at him for a moment, then shrugs. “Come on. We should get out of here.” 

“ _Could one of you grab a paper towel when you’re done conspiring?_ ” his dad calls from the other room. 

Stiles sighs, rips off a couple and brings them in. There’s black junk dripping down Peter’s neck from his nose and mouth. 

His dad takes the paper towels and wipes at it. “If this stuff stains, I swear to God…” he mutters to himself, grimacing when some gets on his hand. “So, how are you planning to get rid of me so you can go ahead with your top secret plans?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Stiles says, and his dad straightens up, looks him in the eye.

“Can you handle this?” Stiles blinks, about to reply, but his dad shakes his head. “No, _think_ about it. Do you have everything you need? Do you have enough back up? Do you have a fall-back plan? Do you have a _second_ fall-back plan? Do you know how you’re going to make sure I never hear about any of it at the station? Because if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, you need a _hell_ of a lot more than you’ve got.”

“You can’t help me with this. You can’t get anywhere near it.”

“How many adults do you have on your side?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, opens his mouth—

“ _Not_ Derek. Derek doesn’t count.” Derek doesn’t move, but Stiles can feel that hit him, hates it. “I don’t mean it like that, I just mean that you need someone who has some _experience_.” 

“Melissa McCall’s offered to help,” Derek says. “Sort of.”

Stiles rounds on him. “When did you talk to _her_?”

“Not important. But we have _someone_.”

“You know he’s just going to go talk to her now, right?” Stiles asks, trying to take deep breaths. “He knows that she knows, and he’ll talk to her, and she’ll tell him everything, and now we’re screwed.”

“ _She doesn’t know_ ,” Derek tells him. “And she’s agreed not to say anything. He’s right anyway.” Derek glances over Stiles’ shoulder at his dad. “I don’t think we can handle this on our own.”

“He is _not_ getting involved. Do you have _any_ idea what that would do to him?” Stiles can’t even _imagine_ how his dad would feel. Well, maybe he can, just a little. Because he remembers what it felt like when someone you’re supposed to be protecting is in danger, and it’s not the same thing, but he knows how well fear and failure mix together. 

“I can help you,” his dad says. “If you let me, I can help you.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Derek says, and Stiles waves him off, shaking his head at his dad.

“We’re going to leave when he comes back. We’re taking Peter. I’m probably not coming home tonight.”

His dad clenches his jaw. “I could take your keys.”

“Then the four of us are going to burn,” Stiles snaps. “The _second_ he finds out Derek’s alive, we’re a target. He’ll set this place on fire and he’ll frame Derek for it. The three of us need to get out of here before that happens. And hell, you should go somewhere else, too, just to be safe. Not the McCalls’. The Argents’. They’re probably safer.”

“If he’s checked in with the station, he probably knows Derek’s alive,” his dad says slowly, going a little pale. “Because I told them he was.”

“Shit. Then you should help me get him in the car,” Stiles says, nodding at Peter. 

“Alright, but when all of this is done? You’re telling me everything. _Everything_. We’re not having any more secrets. This isn’t going to happen again.”

Stiles doesn’t want to lie, so he doesn’t agree, just hauls Peter up. He and his dad each get an arm, carrying him like a drunk. They don’t really have time to worry about the neighbors, so they just move fast out to the car, heave him up across the back seat. 

As they’re heading back to the house, Derek comes out, tired-looking. 

“Your sink is leaking. Couldn’t find where to turn the water off. Might wanna check on that before you leave,” Derek says, looking at his dad. “Stiles is right, though. It’s not safe to stay here.”

“I’ll go.” His dad sighs. “I’ll check the faucet, then I’ll go.”

“We’re going to be fine,” Stiles says. He hopes it isn’t a lie. 

His dad looks at him for a moment. “You better call me if you need me. I don’t care what you don’t want me to know, you better _call me_.”

“I will.”

“We should go,” Derek says, and Stiles gives a little wave before hopping into the car. 

His dad stands in the doorway as they pull out of the driveway. Seeing them off. 

 

The only sound in the car is Peter’s labored breathing, a bit wet. 

Stiles drives and Derek just _sits there_ and it feels a little bit like they’re going to die.

“Say something,” Stiles tells him. 

“What do you want me to say?”

Stiles shrugs. “That we’re going to be okay? That we’re doing the right thing? That everything’s going to turn out alright? Start from there and be creative.”

“I don’t really think I’m the right person to be giving you a pep talk.”

“How do you usually prepare yourself for all the shitty situations you get into, then?”

Derek snorts. “Usually I just say to myself ‘ _At least it’ll all be over soon._ ’” 

Stiles looks at him, not sure if he wants to elbow him in the ribs or hold his hand. “That’s _horrible_. Your sense of humor needs work.” It’s not a joke, though, not really, and they both know it, but they don’t have a time machine. They can’t go back and fix all of the shit that went wrong. Stiles can’t wave a magic wand and turn Derek into a person who’s never thought that dying would be easier than fighting. That’s not his job, and it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Derek _did_ fight, every time. He fought, and he survived, and he’s _here_. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Derek says, and Stiles knows he means it.

“You better not let anything happen to _you_ , either. After this, we’re having some really intense congratulatory survival sex. I can tell you from experience that it’s a lot less intense when there’s just one person involved, so you can’t do anything stupid, like get hurt or die.”

Derek gets this rueful look, so Stiles backtracks.

“Or really intense congratulatory survival spooning. Whatever. The survival’s the important part of all that.”

“I watched the videos.”

 _That_ ’s right out of left field, _Jesus_. 

Sure, Stiles kind of figured as much, but there was no segue to speak of, no time to figure out what was coming and steel himself for it. 

“What’d you see?” Stiles asks, not really sure if he wants an answer.

Derek doesn’t say anything, not for too long, so Stiles looks at him, and the set of his jaw says enough. 

“No one can ever see that video. Alright? We keep it between us.”

“Why are you so afraid of getting help?”

It hits him like a slap, and Stiles focuses on the road, hands gripping the wheel a little tight to hold himself back, but what’s the point of that anyway? 

“Every time I look at my dad, there’s this moment where I can see him remembering my mom and how I was alone with her when she died. Every _single_ time. He used to drink a lot because of it, not enough for it to be a problem or anything, but _enough_. He didn’t want me to be around that, so I spent a lot of time at the McCalls’. How do you _think_ he would feel if he found out that the place he sent me because he couldn’t get ahold of himself might have been worse, huh?” Stiles looks at him, and Derek’s got this guilty look like he’s starting to _get_ it. “I don’t want to make him feel like that, so I’m not. I don’t want him drinking like he used to, so he’s never going to know.”

Derek leans against the window, doesn’t say anything.

“What do you think he’s going to think of _me_?” Derek’s head snaps to him, mouth opening, but Stiles keeps going before he can spew any placating bullshit. “I went up to _him_ at first. No matter what happened later, I started it, and I _let_ him, and you _heard_ what I called him. My dad can’t know about _any_ of that.”

“He wouldn’t see it that way,” Derek says. 

“You don’t know that. You’ve talked to him, what, three times? And you were in police custody for _how many_ of those times? Maybe you know Sheriff Stilinski, but you don’t know my dad. You have no idea how he’d see it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m sure as _hell_ that he wouldn’t blame you as much as _you_ do. _Especially_ if he saw any evidence. I know for a fact that he wouldn’t look at any of that and think any of it was your fault.”

“But if it’s _not_ my fault, then he’ll think it’s his, and we’re not going there.” Stiles shakes his head, glancing in the rear view mirror so see that Peter’s still slumped and probably breathing. “We’re ending this tonight. We’re going to scare him off, and then it’s all going to be over. The only people who’re going to know are you, me, and Lydia. Now, if you’re not willing to do what needs to be done, then I’ll drop you off at Scott’s or something. But it’s happening.”

“You need me. I’ll be there. But if it gets to be too much, I’m calling your dad.”

Stiles looks at him, sees that he’s not going to budge on that one, so he rolls his eyes, saying, “ _Fine_. It’s all going to be fine.”

 

When they pull up at the house, it’s dark, but it looks like there’s lights on inside. Derek gets a weird look, but Stiles doesn’t have time to ask what it is because his phone is ringing. 

Rafa.

“Can you handle Peter? I’ve got a feeling I should take this and get it over with.”

“Yeah, but—”

Stiles shakes his head, bring his phone to his ear. “I need to do it,” he says, then answers. “What do you want?” he asks. He gets out and leans against the car because he needs to know he can stand on his own feet.

“ _It’s been a while, kiddo, but I guess it’s kind of hard to talk with Derek’s dick halfway down your throat._ ” Stiles stiffens, wants to punch him in the fucking face, and he’s about to say as much when movement on the front porch catches his eye. 

He _nearly_ drops the phone because _Scott’s_ standing right there, looking like he wants to rip someone apart, and this is _not_ happening. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just ends the call. 

“Suddenly everything makes so much sense,” Scott says, and Stiles feels it thud in his gut, can’t even _think_ of something to say to that, but he doesn’t have to because Scott isn’t done. “You didn’t have to hide anything, Stiles. I _know_ my dad’s a homophobic dickbag. Sure, I didn’t think he was _harassing you_ , too, but I have to say, it’s not much of a leap.”

Relief rushes through him in a wave with enough force to make him stumble. “We were handling it,” he manages, looking at Derek as he hauls Peter out of the Jeep. 

“You didn’t have to do it _alone_ , dude. I’ll always be on your side.” 

Stiles chokes on that, but gives a little nod. 

“Is Lydia all set up in there?” Derek asks.

Scott looks at him, at Peter, then nods. “She just needs Stiles for the mountain ash line.” 

“And you’re okay with all of this?” Derek asks. Good thing, too, because Stiles is a little too shell-shocked to be pragmatic about it. 

Scott looks down, thinking, then meets their gaze. “Nature has a balance. It’s...” he struggles with that for a second, then straightens, looking hard at Stiles. “This place is sick, can’t you feel it? It’s a black hole. It’s consuming itself, and it’s going to suck us in if we can’t fix it. So we’ve gotta restore the balance, and all I know is that what’s dead should stay dead. That’s the natural order of things. Peter broke it, and now we’ve got to _un_ -break it.”

Stiles nods.

“We’re not really killing him because he’s already dead. He just managed to undo it for a little while.”

“I am one hundred percent in agreement,” Stiles says, even though he can tell that Scott’s the one who’s not quite convinced. “Now, I’m gonna go see a lady about some mountain ash.”

Scott stops him, touching his arm as he goes past, and jerks his head inside. “Is _he_ okay with all of this? He didn’t look so good.”

“Yeah, it’s…” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, not really wanting to say it, but Scott needs to know. “His apartment. The building. It, uh, someone set it on fire.”

“ _Shit_.” 

Scott looks like the wind’s gone out of him. 

It’s a feeling Stiles is pretty fucking familiar with.

“I just… _How_? _Who_? Do we have any idea?” Stiles isn’t looking at him, won’t, and Scott’s fingers curl around his arm. “You know, don’t you? You know exactly who.”

Reluctantly, Stiles nods.

“I’ll believe you, whoever it is.” The way he says it, he probably knows. Doesn’t know _why_ , but he’s definitely leaning in that direction. Stiles can see it in his face.

“We think he did Derek’s car, too,” Stiles says. “He’s got it out for Derek.”

Something in Scott sets at that, like he’s giving up the last hope that his father is a good man. A part of Stiles is deeply satisfied by that, _needs_ it, but he can see the way it hurts Scott, too. There’s a price to it that Scott doesn’t deserve to pay, but at least it’s a lesser price than knowing the truth.

Scott lets go of Stiles’ arm, and Stiles squeezes his shoulder before heading into the house. 

The other three are in a room to the right, a living room, maybe. There’s a couple electric camping lanterns set around, fluorescent and bright. 

Derek’s eyes meet his, and he gives a tiny nod of support. His hands are on a still-unconscious Peter’s shoulders, keeping him in a chair. Lydia’s standing nearby with one hip cocked, arms crossed, a vial of mountain ash in her hand.

“You might want to just turn your phone off,” Derek says. Stiles frowns, then pulls it out of his pocket. 

Four missed calls over the past couple minutes. All from the same number. _Rafa_ ’s number.

Apparently, he hadn’t heard it vibrate. Great.

“I’m not going to be able to put off taking this for long,” he says, looking at the two of them because they _understand_. That Scott can’t be here. That whatever Rafa has to say isn’t something he should hear. 

Lydia looks at him for a moment, then looks behind him, where he’s pretty sure Scott is coming in. “We need an antidote for this wolfsbane, just in case he’s out too long. I believe the Argents have one. Do you think you could persuade them to give it to us?”

“I can try,” Scott says, and Stiles turns.

“My dad has one too. He should be there, anyway. You can call him and figure out where he is.”

Scott nods, looking at them. “Are you going to kill him while I’m gone, then?”

“We’ll wait,” Lydia says. 

“Alright. Good.” Stiles tosses him his keys; he’s got Stiles’ dad’s number in his phone, so that won’t be a problem. “I’ll see you all soon, I guess.”

He _knows_ something’s up, that much is obvious, but he’s trusting them anyways. That makes Stiles feel worse for all of this, for abusing his trust like he has. 

“Are you gonna do this mountain ash line or not?” Lydia asks. Stiles nods, takes it from her. Derek steps back from Peter, head cocked towards the door. He holds up a finger, indicating that Scott isn’t out of hearing range yet, and Stiles gets to work on the mountain ash.

It’s easier, this time, because he knows that it’s possible. It’s easier to believe in it, that he can make a line with some glorified dirt that’ll keep Peter in. 

When he thinks it’s done, he takes a step back, and Derek tests it with a hand. He can’t cross. And when Lydia tries, she can’t either, but Stiles can, no problem. It looks like they’re good then. Stiles will have to be the one to administer the antidote, though. And he’ll have to break it to let Lydia through to do the deed. 

They stand there, silent, for a minute or two before Derek says, “He should be out of range by now.”

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. “Good _God_ , why is he even _here_?”

“Not long after I called you, he found me,” Lydia says. “He heard me scream, and he wasn’t taking any of my bullshit, so I had to fill him in. Unfortunately. I don’t think he’s going to go along with it. When it comes down to it, he’s not going to want to do it.”

“So now what?” Stiles asks. He wants to sit, but he’s not really sure he trusts the floor; there’s a gaping hole a few feet away, and everything’s covered in dirt and ash.

“We can either kill him now, or convince Scott that it’s a good idea later,” Derek says.

Lydia nods, says, “Only one of those is definitely going to end with Peter dead.”

“We said that we wouldn’t kill him while Scott was gone,” Stiles tells them. “We’re lying to him enough already.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes, shrugging it off. “Now, what’s the situation with yours?”

“He tried to kill Derek,” Stiles says. “Or at least scare the shit out of him. Because Derek has proof of everything that happened. And now, apparently, he won’t stop calling me.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles says. “I hung up as soon as I saw Scott.”

He pulls out his phone and looks at it again as Lydia says, “You should call him back. Find out what he knows.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Derek says.

“I can handle it.”

Derek gives him a look. “You don’t _have_ to be able to handle it, you know that? It’s okay if it’s too much. We can figure something else out.”

“What, do _you_ want to call him? I’m sure that’ll go over just _great_.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Lydia says. “Make a decision, call him or don’t, but _decide_. We still need to figure out what we’re doing about Scott.”

Stiles stares at his phone as the screen reads that he’s getting another call, and just answers it before he can lose his nerve.

“ _I know you think it’s cute, playing hard to get, but it’s dangerous for a boy like you_.”

“What do you want now?” Stiles asks, turning so he doesn’t have to look at Derek or Lydia’s faces.

“ _I just wanted to check in on dearest Derek. I heard about that unfortunate incident at his apartment, and I was wondering how he’s holding up._ ”

Stiles grits his teeth, gets out, “He’s _fine_. No thanks to you.”

“ _Really? He doesn’t mind being in the house where his family burned alive?_ ” Stiles goes cold, hearing total silence from behind him.

“Where are you? You’re not here, I know that much, so don’t pretend you are. Where _are_ you?”

“He’s in a car,” Derek says quietly. 

“ _I’m on my way, kiddo. I think it’s time the three of us had a little chat. Face-to-face._ ”

“Fuck you,” Stiles snaps.

“ _Don’t worry, baby, I’ll still fuck you if you ask real nice_.”

Stiles just hangs up. Throws his phone against the wall. Not hard enough to break it, but enough to pop the battery out. He doesn’t go get it.

“I’m going to kill him,” Stiles says, staring at the pieces.

“That’s the spirit,” Lydia tells him. 

When he turns around, Derek looks livid, fists clenching and unclenching, lips curling in a snarl that isn’t exactly human. 

“If he’s coming here, we need to leave. Scott’s going to come here and I can’t be in the same room with them,” Stiles says.

“Where are we supposed to go?” Lydia asks. “The only vehicle we’ve got is _my_ car, and I’m not getting werewolf goo on my upholstery, _sorry_.” 

Stiles looks at her. “So you want him to come here? You want to meet him? Because that’s what’s going to happen. He’s going to come here and fuck everything up, and Scott’s going to be here, and he’s going to find out, and it’s all going to be a fucking mess. Is that what you want?” 

“It’s going to happen whether you like it or not. It’s time you start preparing for it.”

He wants to argue with that, but he can’t figure out how, because yeah, it’s probably going to fucking happen, and no, he doesn’t think there’s anywhere he can run that’ll be far enough away that Rafa won’t find him.

“Call Scott. Tell him to hurry back. _Speed_. I don’t want Rafa to get here first. I don’t want Scott overhearing anything. Rafa might not say anything if he’s here, who knows. It’s the only card in our hand, so we might as well play it.”

“We _do_ have another,” Derek says as Lydia makes the call. 

“No, we don’t, because my dad is _not_ getting involved.”

“Hey, Scott, we need you to come back. _Now_. As fast as that lemon will take you,” Lydia says into the phone.

“She’s _not_ a lemon!” Stiles argues. “We take _very_ good care of her.”

“We’ll see you soon,” Lydia tells Scott, rolling her eyes, then hangs up. “Alright. Now, I, for one, would _really_ prefer that the _Sheriff_ doesn’t get involved. You know, since we’re _conspiring to commit murder_. Just for the record.”

Derek shakes his head. “He won’t do anything about Peter, but I still think we should consider the option.”

“Fine, this is me considering it,” Stiles says, “and _this_ is me saying _fuck no_.” 

“I’m trying to _help_ ,” Derek tells him.

“I _know_ that, okay? I fucking know it. But it’s _not going to happen_. Literally, over my dead body.”

“We’re _not calling the Sheriff_ , alright?” Lydia says, giving them both sharp looks. “And now that that’s established, we can figure out how we’re going to spin this. Because we’ve got a human on his way and an unconscious werewolf with black goo coming out of his nose. We need to do something about it.” 

“Break the circle,” Derek says. “We’ll clean him up and I’ll see if taking any of his pain helps heal him enough that we don’t have a problem.”

Stiles sighs, then crouches down and breaks the mountain ash line in a little _whoosh_. Derek steps over it, one hand coming to rest on Peter’s shoulder. Black lines crawl up his arm in little pulses. Stiles rips a chunk of Peter’s shirt  off, near the bottom hem, and starts wiping at his face. Some of the goo has dried, so he scrubs and it flecks off.

He looks a little better, but he’s still pretty obviously unconscious.

Derek lets go, sucking in a breath before saying, “There’s two cars on the road. Scott’s pulling ahead.” 

Stiles shakes his hands out, trying to prepare himself. Meanwhile, Derek goes back to the werewolf mojo, and Lydia starts pacing. Then reaches into her purse to pull out a pretty big handgun. 

“Jesus, what the _hell_?” Stiles asks as she checks it. 

“Did you really think I’d come unprepared?” she asks, turning it over in her hands. “Wolfsbane bullets, but they’ll work on a human just fine. And I know how to use it, thanks to Mr. Argent. So we’ll be _just_ fine. I’m going to make sure of it.”

Peter makes a low noise, and Derek lets go of him, steps back. “Put the barrier back up,” he says, eyes locked on Peter. Stiles does, quickly, and looks up. Derek’s panting a little, not much, and Stiles feels like he’s about to start, about to hyperventilate his way into a panic attack. Derek looks at him then, and Stiles reads all he needs to in that, goes to him. Wraps his arms around him, buries his face in Derek’s neck, and just _breathes_. 

The hands smoothing over his back are warm and it’s a nice escape. Derek smells like Derek, _feels_ like him, and it’s a fucking horrible night for them both, but at least they’re together for it. At least neither of them are alone.

Lydia doesn’t say anything about it. She gives them their long embrace, their moment to get ready. Stiles will thank her for that later, he will. 

“Scott’s pulling up,” Derek says eventually. Stiles nods and pulls away. When Derek’s arms drop, he takes Derek’s hand and squeezes it. 

He hears the Jeep door slam closed, hears Scott running across gravel and landing on the porch. “Guys, my dad…” he trails off, looking at them, and takes a deep breath. “This is going to be _fun_ , then, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” Stiles tells him. 

“Alright,” Scott says. “So, what’s our non-werewolf story for why we’ve got an unconscious guy who’s legally dead?”

Lydia snorts, says, “He has bigger concerns.” 

Scott’s eyes narrow and he looks at each of them in turn. “You expected him to come, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen tonight,” Stiles says quickly.

“But we were betting on him making an appearance.”

“So when you said you were _handling it_ ,” Scott says, “what you meant is that you had a whole plan that only the three of you were in on.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, dude, Derek didn’t even know until today. Lydia and I…it’s complicated. We weren’t sure how you were going to react, and I—” A car door shuts outside, and Stiles shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath. “ _Sorry_.”

“ _Sorry_? Stiles, what’s even going on?”

“I _really_ can’t explain right now,” he says, ears straining to hear how close Rafa is to the house. Derek’s holding his hand nice and tight, keeping him together, and Scott looks confused and a little hurt and a little pissed off.

Scott frowns, looking over his shoulder. The front door creaks open, and Scott turns as he walks towards them, facing the doorway. 

When Rafa comes in, he looks at Scott and sighs, then turns to Stiles. “What, are you fucking _him_ now, too?” 

“Don’t you _ever_ talk to him like that!” Scott snaps at him. Rafa rolls his eyes, set in deep bruises, bandage still across the bridge of his nose, then looks around the room, seeming to take in Peter for the first time.

“Holy shit, kiddo, you’ve got a _hostage_? Is that—” Rafa grins. “Did you bring me Peter Hale? How thoughtful.”

“He’s not for you, asshole,” Lydia says, stepping forward.

Scott crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you even _want_?” 

“Derek stole something of mine. I’d like it back.”

“What could he possibly—” Scott starts to ask, but Derek cuts in.

“I’m not giving it back. Not on your life.”

Rafa’s jaw bulges. “Who have you shown it to?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Derek points out. “So not the Sheriff. Not yet. But if you don’t _back the fuck off_ , maybe I will.”

At that, Rafa walks up, gets right in Derek’s face, and Derek’s grip on Stiles’ hand tightens for just a second. Then he snorts, smirking a little, and steps to the side, looks down at Stiles. A smile spreads across his face, and Stiles bites his tongue to keep from headbutting him or running away. He just _stares_ , and Stiles lets go of Derek’s hand, hears Scott crossing the floor and _stop_. 

“Are you— What the _fuck_ ,” Scott hisses, then Rafa’s on his ass on the other side of the room. “Did you _smell_ that?” he asks Derek, low. “What kind of sick fuck—”

“How the _hell_ did you just do that?” Rafa says as he gets to his feet.

Scott moves in front of Stiles. “Get out. Don’t ever look at Stiles again.” Scott shakes his head, spitting, “He’s _sixteen_. He’s _my_ age. That’s disgusting. I can’t even look at you, Jesus.” 

“I’m not leaving until Derek gives me what I want. Don’t make me _take_ it, Derek. It won’t go as well for you as last time.”

“He’s not giving you _anything_ ,” Scott says. 

Rafa sighs, and when Stiles looks around Scott, he sees him pull out a gun. “We’re familiar with this, aren’t we, Derek?” Rafa grins and Stiles is _very_ uncomfortable with the implication that Rafa’s ever pulled a gun on Derek. “Now, why don’t you give me what I want so I don’t have to shoot anyone. That would be _so_ unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re really going to shoot someone?” Scott asks.

“I don’t _want_ to, but I will, and I don’t particularly care who. And for the record, I don’t _bluff_.”

Scott’s head is cocked, and Stiles _knows_ he’s not hearing that Rafa’s lying, and this is all getting very messy very fast. So he steps around Scott, gets in front of him and Derek. 

“If you’re going to shoot someone, you might as well shoot me,” he tells Rafa, suspicion confirmed when Rafa grits his teeth. “No, go ahead. Because you’re _never_ getting that flashdrive. It belongs to _me_ now. So suck it, asshole.”

“I don’t think you’re in a very good place to play this game, Stiles. I think you know I don’t need a _gun_ to do any damage. Do I?”

Stiles looks at him, thinks of Scott behind him, and he’s not liking Rafa’s look one bit. “Derek, just give it to him. It’s not worth it.”

It’s quiet for a moment, then he hears, “ _I don’t have it_.”

“ _What_?” Stiles snaps as he turns. “I thought you said you had it with you.”

“I _did_ , but sorry if I didn’t think it was a good idea to bring our _one_ bargaining chip into a possibly shitty situation.” 

“Where is it?” Rafa demands, looking at them both. 

Derek snorts. “Yeah, let me just give you the one thing we have on you. Why don’t I do that.” 

“Then tell _him_ ,” Rafa says, nodding at Stiles, “and he can escort me there.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Scott says over everyone else’s protests.

Stiles looks at them all, feeling that Derek and Scott are both about to do something, and he just _knows_ it’s not going to go well. “What if Derek goes, gets it, and comes back?” he offers.

“And brings your _daddy_ back with him?” Rafa asks, smirking when Stiles flinches. “Not a chance.”

“Then I’ll go,” Stiles concedes.

“No, _I_ ’ll go,” Scott says, giving him a look like thinks Stiles is fucking _insane_.

Rafa narrows his eyes at him. “Do you have _any_ idea what’s on that flash drive?” He doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “Of course you don’t. They’d never tell you, would they? Now, ordinarily, I might say that’s a good thing, but as it is, you have no concept of the lengths I’ll go to to get it back. That makes you more likely to do something stupid, and if I can avoid it, I’d rather not shoot my own son.”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” Lydia groans, and there’s a fucking _loud_ noise, and Rafa’s on the floor, holding his leg.

Stiles looks at Lydia, one eyebrow raised. “Excessive much?”

“He didn’t seem to be very interested in negotiation,” she says, shrugging, as Scott darts around him to grab Rafa’s gun. “ _Someone_ had to do something. He’ll be fine, anyway. Now, I’ve got some rope, if you want it.”

Stiles watches Rafa apply pressure to his bleeding thigh, gets a sharp look through gritted teeth for it. “Give me his gun,” Stiles tells Scott, holding out his hand for it. It’s heavy. The grip is warm. The safety’s on, he realizes as he flicks it off, then kicks himself for not realizing it sooner. Should’ve been paying better attention. Stupid. 

Rafa’s trying to stand, but his leg doesn’t want him to put any weight on it. 

There’s blood between his fingers. 

It wells up thickly over the back of his hand.

Stiles takes a step forward, then another, and another. The gun feels good in his hand, _better_ pointed at Rafa. He grabs Rafa by the hair, yanks his head up, holds the barrel of the gun up to his temple. 

“Stiles?” Scott says behind him, but the protest dies. 

“Am I supposed to be _afraid_ of you now, kiddo?” Rafa hisses, pain making his voice tight. “ _Not gonna happen_.”

“You have _no_ idea what you’re dealing with,” Stiles tells him. “ _None_. I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to find out, but I think it’s time you understand _exactly_ who we are.”

“Wait, are we sure this is a good idea?” Scott asks. 

There’s a rough, animalistic noise, and Derek just says, “ _Yes_.” Then there’s warmth at Stiles’ side and he takes a second to look at the the shape of Derek’s shifted profile. 

Rafa’s eyes are wide. He has no idea what he’s looking at.

“Yeah, maybe we should’ve told you sooner: Derek’s a werewolf. _Yeah_. He’s what goes bump in the night and, funny thing, you’ve kind of pissed him off, haven’t you?”

“What? That’s— No, that’s not possible.”

Stiles grins. “Hate to break it to you, but _yeah_ , it kind of is,” he tells him. “Derek could rip your throat out, if he wanted to. He doesn’t really like doing it, but he’d make an exception for you, I think.” 

Derek nods, and Stiles has never been happier that he’s a hammy motherfucker when he licks his teeth and Rafa flinches.

“He’s not the only one, either. There’s a whole pack of them, and they’ll hunt you down for _sport_. And then my dad’ll make sure no one knows it ever happened.” He yanks sharply at Rafa’s hair just to make his eyes water. “You chose the wrong kid to fuck with, didn’t you?”

He wants to say something harsh, throw a low blow at him about how Derek’s better in bed or something like that, but Scott’s right there, and he doesn’t want Derek to get the wrong idea. 

So Stiles just kicks Rafa in the balls instead. 

Behind him, Scott winces sympathetically, and that’s going to be a problem.

“Hey Scott, buddy? You might want to get out of here,” he says, grinning because he loves the way pain looks on Rafa’s face, “because I think I’m gonna kill your father.” Derek huffs something close to a laugh, and suddenly, that trace of fear in Rafa’s eyes isn’t _nearly_ enough. 

He needs more than that. 

For all the times he’s been terrified, and hated himself, and felt like he couldn’t escape, and wanted to unmake himself. He needs Rafa to know what it’s like to feel powerless and small and horrible. Just for a little while.

“You know, the thing is,” Stiles tells him, “ _sure_ , Derek’s scary, and _sure_ , he could literally clean the meat off your bones while you watch, and _sure_ , we have friends who would rip you apart for hours because it’s a _game_ to them, but they’re not the ones you should be afraid of. _No no no_. You know what’s worse than the monsters after your blood? The boy who runs with them. You have _no idea_ who you’re dealing with.”

For a moment, he feels like he shouldn’t say it, but Rafa hasn’t caught a lie yet, so he might as well. Derek, at least, will understand, and Scott’ll know he doesn’t mean it.

“They answer to _me_ , you know that?” Stiles hisses, getting up close, right in his space. “All I have to do is say the word and you’ve got a pack of werewolves on your heels. We’ll see how long you can run with that leg. Me? I hope you give them a good chase. Makes for a better show. But what to do when they catch you, I wonder?” He gets in right at Rafa’s ear, whispers like it’s a dirty secret, “Derek can go full-wolf, you know. I could make him fuck you like that.”

“Stiles, what the _fuck_?” Scott protests behind him, and Stiles stands up, turns to look at him. “Too far, dude. _Way_ too far.”

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one,” Stiles tells him. “If you need to leave, leave.”

Scott looks at him like he’s not sure he wants to understand. “Look, I get that he messed with you. And that’s fucked up, and he’s sick, but we can’t do this.”

Stiles looks back at Rafa. “What do you think, huh? Should I tell him? Think he’ll get it then?” 

Rafa shakes his head, just the once, eyes wide, like he knows that the second Scott loses sympathy for him, he’s a goner. 

And Stiles can make that happen, _easy_. 

“You don’t think so?” Stiles snarls, grinding the barrel of the gun into Rafa’s forehead. “Well, why don’t you convince me, then. Come on, I wanna hear you _beg_ for it.”

“I think I might have underestimated you,” Rafa forces through his teeth.

Stiles _laughs_. “You _think_ so? Finally figuring that one out? _Good_. Now, _how do we ask for things_ , huh?”

“Not. Happening.” 

“Tell me,” Stiles says, “did you take us to the pool so much just to get me out of my clothes? Did it make you crazy? Did you have to go to the bathroom to jerk off?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” he hears behind him, rough, and Rafa just glares at him, for too long. “Is he—” steps, as Scott clears the space to his other side, face shifted with eyes glowing bright red “Is he _right_?”

“I’ll tell him everything he can bear hearing,” Stiles says. “I doubt he’ll see it the same way you do.”

Rafa doesn’t break Stiles’ gaze, but a small smile spreads across his face. “Alright,” he says. “ _You win_.” 

“Lydia, you still got that rope?” Stiles calls. 

“Of course,” she says lightly, heels knocking against the wood floor. “Here.” 

Derek takes the rope, and Stiles can decide how he wants Rafa tied up, so he just lets Derek do whatever. Scott, on his other side, looks like he’s having a hard time holding himself back. 

“Like I said,” Stiles tells him, “if you need to leave, _leave_. We’ll get a ride back with Lydia when we’re done here.”

After a moment, Scott nods and backs away. Stiles is glad for it because he’s never going to really be all aboard the murder train. If Scott can pretend that this night never happened, that Stiles isn’t going to do what he’s going to do, their friendship will be better for it. It’ll survive tonight. Unlike some. 

“Are you just going to let me bleed to death?” Rafa says after Scott leaves the house. “Not very brave of you.” 

His arms are tied behind his back, rope looped around them up to his elbows, and Stiles _is_ a little worried about the bullet wound. About him bleeding out too fast. So he hands Derek the gun and tears the hole in Rafa’s slacks open a little wider to get a good look. 

The blood makes his stomach turn a little, but he can handle it. 

When he feels around the back, there’s no exit wound, so the bullet must be lodged somewhere in his thigh muscle. Probably pretty fucking painful. _Good_.

“Lydia, is that gun of yours registered to anyone?”

“I have no idea,” she says. “Technically, I _may_ have liberated it.” 

Stiles snorts. “Well, you didn’t happen to liberate any tweezers, did you?”

“I _might_ carry around a pair in my purse, but there’s no way in _hell_ I’m letting you get his blood all over them.” He turns, giving her a look. “I use them on my _face_ , Stiles.” 

“Then this is going to be a _lot_ of fun for you,” he tells Rafa with the edge of a grin. “You wanna do the honors?” he asks Derek. 

Derek shakes his head. “You’ll need me to hold him down.” 

There’s a brilliant, thrilling rush of fear in Rafa’s face, when he really _gets_ what they’re talking about, what Stiles is going to have to do. 

Stiles rips off a chunk of Rafa’s shirt as Derek settles on him, pinning his shoulders and uninjured leg against the floor. Sitting on his knee just to be a little shit, Stiles stuffs the chunk of shirt into his mouth to gag him a little. 

“I should probably warn you,” Stiles tells him, “I didn’t do so well in Biology. But how hard could it be, right?” Rafa starts trying to struggle, and it’s pathetic, really. It’s not like it’s going to _do_ anything. 

Instead of thinking about how fucking gross what he’s about to do is, he focuses on that, on how little it really took to reduce Rafa to nothing. 

“ _Here goes nothing_ ,” Stiles says, grimacing a little as he goes for it. 

The hole’s pretty small, too small for his thumb and forefinger, and he’s not feeling particularly charitable, so he jabs his thumb in there to widen the hole. Rafa _howls_ , bucking under them, but Derek keeps him steady. 

“This is just going to hurt worse if you move,” Stiles says, trying to calm his stomach because his finger is _in_ a dude, and not in a sexy way. Not at all. “Oh my _God_ , I do _not_ get paid enough for this.” 

It’s too fucking gross, so he just goes for it, pinches his fingers together and digs around until he finds the bullet, and yanks it out. Panting like _he’s_ the one bleeding everywhere, he holds it up to his face, looking at it. 

“Did I just become Liam Neeson right now?” he asks, and that’s about as much as he can take. Everything goes topsy-turvy and then _dark_.

 

His face _hurts_ , and he has this weird aural after-image of a sound like someone clapping, but he blinks his eyes open.

“I _told_ you that would work,” Lydia says, crouched over him. “See, he’s _fine_.”

“Did I just get hit by a bus?” Stiles asks as she gets to her feet, brushing her hands off on her thighs. 

“Nope. You just probably wouldn’t survive having a menstrual cycle, that’s all.”

“—Yeah, looks like he’s fine now,” Derek’s saying into the phone. “Of course, yeah. I will.” 

Sitting up, Stiles tries to catch up, taking in the room. Peter’s making a really sad little noise, but he doesn’t _quite_ seem conscious yet. Rafa is _not_ conscious, and for a moment, Stiles is worried he’s dead, but he sees that Rafa’s breathing. His tie is wrapped tight around his thigh, bloody. 

Derek slips his phone into his back pocket and comes to check Stiles over. 

“Who was that on the phone?” Stiles asks him. 

There’s no answer, not for a long moment, and then he says, very quietly, “You were out for almost half an hour. We weren’t sure what to do. He needed to know.”

“ _Please_ tell me you didn’t call my dad just now.” He can feel panic rising in his chest, heart starting to beat too fast. 

“You’re fine, _he_ ’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Derek tells him. “We need to figure out what we’re doing here.”

“Well, I’m not killing him while he’s unconscious.” Stiles hauls himself up onto his feet, catching sight of his bloody hands. “Please tell me there’s somewhere I can wash my hands. This is _gross_.”

Lydia throws a packet of Wet Wipes at him and he looks at her in awe.

“Good God, woman, what _don’t_ you have in that purse?”

“Peter’s dignity,” she says with a little smile. Stiles looks at the guy, at the sad little bubble of black goo expanding and contracting out of his nostril as he breathes, and yeah, that would be a fair statement.

Stiles wipes off his hands pretty much. What’s dried under his nails is going to be there until he can get a brush or something, but at least his hands aren’t red anymore. 

“Where’s the gun?” he asks, and Derek pulls it out of the back of his waistband but hesitates when it’s in the air between them.

“You’re really planning on killing him, aren’t you?”

Stiles gives him a look. “Well, _yeah_. That’s kind of the _point_.”

“It wasn’t before. You weren’t going to kill him before tonight, just scare him. He’s _plenty_ scared.”

“Plans change,” Stiles says simply. “I don’t think I realized how much I hated him until tonight, and I’d _really_ like to do something about it, so. It’s happening.”

Derek’s got this _look_ , this petulant puppy look that would be cute if Stiles didn’t know what it means.

“You don’t want me to kill him, do you?”

“I just think,” Derek says with placating hands, “that you should think about it some more. Sleep on it. Make sure it’s _really_ what you want to do.” 

Stiles takes the gun out of his hand. “Please, save me the _he’s not worth it_ speech, because I’m _done_ losing sleep over him. If I kill him, he’s gone. I never have to think about him again. I can be _done_ with all of this.”

“You think you’re going to be able to forget the first person you kill?” Derek shakes his head. “It _stays with you_. You don’t get to forget about the first life you take. Or _any_ life you take. You carry that with you until you die. If you want to be able to sleep better at night, this isn’t the way. Take it from someone who knows.”

As he looks at Derek, he can feel his own resolve crumbling, tries to grasp at it, but it falls through his hands like sand. “I just want to feel safe again,” Stiles tells him. “That’s all.”

“Do you trust me?” Stiles gives him a look, nodding. “Then trust me to keep you safe. No matter what happens, that’s what I’ll do.” 

Stiles has a rebuttal for that, but it dies when he hears from behind Derek, “How _touching_.” 

They both look as Peter coughs. He’s not _well_ , looks like speaking isn’t exactly pleasant or easy. Too fucking bad for him, though. He’s in the wrong room for sympathy.

“Is someone going to tell me what I’m doing here?” He pants a little after that, with the effort, and Lydia steps up to the plate. 

“You’re waiting to die,” she says. “And you don’t have to be conscious for it, so you might want to keep your mouth shut before I decide to shut it for you.”

He wheezes wetly. “Lydia, dear, you wouldn’t really kill me while I was unconscious, would you?”

“I _absolutely_ would, in fact, because this isn’t about my ego.”

That seems to be enough to convince him to try a new approach. “ _Really_ , Derek, you’re going to kill me _twice_?” he asks.

“I’m not involved with it,” Derek says simply. “I’m not here for you.”

“You’d think that after all this time, you might have some sense of _family_ , or _loyalty_ , but obviously—” There’s another shockingly-loud gunshot, enough to make everyone but Lydia jump, and Stiles’ stomach turns because there’s blood _everywhere_ , and bits of _stuff_ , and _wow_ , he did _not_ sign up for this. 

“Holy fucking _fuck_!” he yells, turning on Lydia, hand swinging wildly at what’s no longer Peter. “You just _shot him in the head_. Jesus tittyfucking Christ, I think I need new pants or something.” Then, for emphasis, “ _Fuck_.”

“Life is too short to waste on the monologues of middle-aged white men,” Lydia says. She shrugs, puts the gun back in her purse. “Well, I’m done now. I’ve just got to go put on some comfortable shoes, but when you two are ready, I’d appreciate some help in digging this one a grave.”

Stiles watches her head out to her car, not sure if he wants to puke or slow clap her out. 

Either way, he’s _definitely_ not looking at that half of the room.

“Are you ready to do that?” Derek asks, nodding in the general Peter direction. He looks pale, though, and his mouth is tight and thin, going white around the edge of his lips when it closes.

“Fuck no,” Stiles says, deciding. “We can just leave him here, tied up. He can walk back into town if he can manage it. Or maybe he can’t. Who knows. But yeah, I’m not so much with the shooting. Actually, I think I might need to go lie down for a little while? So there’s that. Yeah. Definitely going outside because I am _outtie_.”

He makes it to the porch before doubling over, sucking in the dark air in slow, deep heaves. After a moment, a warm hand rubs his back, Derek’s, and he’s _okay_ , sure. He just watched part of someone’s head get blown off and stuck half his hand in someone’s leg, but he’s okay. He’s going to be fine.

Lydia actually _is_ fine, car door open, sitting on the back seat as she ties the laces of her cross trainers. The glow of the cabin light makes her hair look terribly red, but not like blood. No, there’s no blood on her. She’s clean. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles tells Derek as Lydia gets up, shuts the door, and goes around to the trunk. When she slams it closed, she’s got two shovels and a water bottle crowded into her arms.

“Where do you want him?” she calls at Derek.

Derek sighs, then says, “Out back. At least ten feet from Laura.”

“One of you get the lights. I’m not digging in the dark.”

“ _You’re_ digging?” Stiles calls after her, genuinely surprised. She’s not exactly the gravedigging type. 

She whirls around on him, though, shovels moving in her arms. “Look, Stiles. I may not like getting my hands dirty, but if I’m going to do something, I’m going to see it through. And in this case, that means I’m going to have to sweat a little. _Oh well_. I’d rather be sweating now than be dead in a month.”

Derek’s inside getting the lights and Stiles isn’t exactly interested in going back in that room, so he follows Lydia to the back of the house. 

There’s a marker there for Laura, a two-foot tall wolfsbane plant. Stiles remembers it being small, and remembers digging her up. And the coil of rope over the grave. He’d always wondered how Derek had managed it. 

He has a feeling there won’t be anything like it for Peter. 

Derek comes out through the back, tosses the two lanterns at their feet, then hops down. There must've been a porch here at some point, but it's gone now. 

"How are we doing this?" Derek asks. "Because I see two shovels and three of us." 

“Stiles and I will trade off, if you think you can handle that,” Lydia says sharply. She looks _ready_ , like if she thinks about it any harder, the grave will dig itself. Once the shovel’s in her hands, she seems unstoppable. 

It’s long work. Stiles knows that first hand. It seems like it takes forever, though, here. Maybe because he’s exhausted, really, by the time they start. He doesn’t have any adrenaline left, just running on steam. 

It’s weird, too, because they don’t _talk_. They just dig. He or Lydia sits on the side while the other works, quietly waiting. 

Stiles keeps thinking about the body.

The body, and Rafa in the room with the body. 

As the grave gets deeper, the idea of the room starts to morph into a strange, familiar hell. It sets him on edge, thinking about it. This is all unfinished until he can strip the fear from the room, make himself go back inside. 

Derek’s the one who gets Peter’s body, and Stiles almost goes with him, but he’s not sure he can force his feet to take him there. He’s afraid of failure. So he waits while Lydia goes back to her car for her purse. Stares at the ground, the shadowy hole. 

It’s not really rectangular, but it looks like it’ll probably be big enough. 

Peter’s in Derek’s arms in a bridal carry. Stiles looks at his feet. Doesn’t want to see Derek’s face or Peter’s.

It takes all three of them to get him in right. Derek’s on the head side, holding his shoulders, and Stiles can _feel_ that he hates it, feels it up to the moment Derek drops him and manages to make it a few feet before bending over the soil and heaving. 

“You’re going to want to take him away for this part,” Lydia says, grabbing the squeeze-top water bottle he’d seen her carrying earlier. She squirts it into the grave, over Peter’s body, and when she finishes, gets out a pack of matches from her purse, and _then_ he gets it. 

Derek spits on the ground before going with Stiles around to the front of the house. He hears the _whoosh_ when it all lights, tries not to think about it. 

They stand there for a moment in what used to be the driveway. 

When Derek looks down at himself, he yanks his shirt over his head and throws it to the ground. He looks at his hands like he wants to throw them to the ground too, and Stiles does a stupid thing. 

It’s not so much that he’s trying to leave Derek alone, but he’s a Sheriff’s kid, and the shirt’s evidence. So he runs it back to Lydia, chucks it into the burning grave and hustles back. Derek’s doubled over, hands on his knees, but he looks up when Stiles approaches. He’s cracking. It’s all over his face, his body. It’s too fucking much for all of them, and Derek’s handling more than his fair share. 

Stiles pulls him down to the gravel and into his arms. Derek’s head thuds against his sternum, and Stiles wraps him up. Holds him together. Like Derek’s done for him. 

It’s quiet. He can’t make out the sound of the fire over the roar of the October night air. Neither of them say anything. Derek just breathes against him, leans against him, while Stiles cards fingers through his hair. 

It’s a long, long time before Derek lifts his head up. 

His face is tired, with lines that don’t belong there, and his eyes track over Stiles’ face slowly. The adjustment to the dark must’ve happened when he wasn’t paying attention. 

Stiles presses his mouth to Derek’s forehead for a long second, then pulls away.

“We should see if she’s ready for our help.”

He and Lydia put a good six inches of dirt into the grave before letting Derek take the second shovel. It’s more of a mercy this way, he thinks. Closure without having to see any more.

 

By the time they’re patting the dirt flat, it’s _beyond_ late. Probably sometime in the morning. He’s not sure, really. His hand slaps around his pockets for his phone to check, but he remembers throwing it earlier. 

It’s not like he can leave without going back inside. 

“Go ahead and pack up,” Stiles tells them, grabbing one of the lanterns. “I’ve gotta head inside.” 

Derek gives him a look, offering him company, but Stiles shakes his head. He needs to do this alone. 

Really, he’s half-expecting Rafa to be dead when he looks at him. Of course, Derek would’ve told him, but he still _felt_ that Rafa was dead.

He’s conscious. Trying to get his arms free. His eyes lock on Stiles when he comes in.

All he does is _wait_. 

It feels good, having Rafa be the one who doesn’t know what’s coming. 

His phone is over by the wall, so Stiles grabs it, puts the battery back in, and he’s going to just leave, but he _can’t_. He needs the final word here. 

So he gets in front of Rafa, crouched down so they’re face to face. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t show your face a hundred miles from here. Got it?”

Rafa nods, slow. Stiles gets up. On the way out, he kicks Rafa’s bad leg just for the hell of it.

When he’s outside, he takes a deep breath. 

It’s done. 

Lydia’s already in the driver’s seat, the car running, headlights on. She jerks her thumb at the backseat, so he climbs in next to Derek, takes Derek’s hand. 

“Everyone ready to go home?” Lydia asks, looking at them in the rear-view. Stiles nods at her, squeezing Derek’s hand. 

 

When they get home, his dad’s car isn’t in the driveway. That’s good, probably. Easier than explaining why they’re covered in dirt and Derek’s shirtless. 

Actually, it’s not that unusual for them. 

Derek starts heading to his bedroom, but Stiles steers him towards the shower. 

“We’re _not_ getting in my bed like this,” he says, smiling when Derek gives him an angry baby look. He gets the water running before working on their clothes. Neither of them are really at full capacity, so it’s a two-man job.

Maybe an hour ago, Stiles would get a little handsy while they’re getting clean, but he’s _wiped_ and Derek’s wiped, and basically the only thing he can think of is curling up in bed to sleep. But there’s dirt and blood to wash down the drain, their bodies to make clean. By the end of it, they’re leaning against each other for support. They almost slip trying to step out of the tub, but catch themselves, right themselves.

Stiles only _just_ manages to kick his bedroom door closed before they fall onto his bed.

 

When he wakes up, he’s warm and _hideously_ comfortable, and Derek’s shaking him awake. 

“Your dad’s home,” he says while Stiles’ vision clears up and his eyes adjust to the light in his room. 

“Shit, okay, lemme go down and tell him you’re here so he doesn’t freak out and, like, throw condoms at us or something,” Stiles grumbles. He finds a pair of boxers in his drawer, yanks them up, and heads down.

He sees his dad’s shoulders first, over the kitchen sink. The water’s running. 

“Didn’t bring home breakfast?” Stiles asks, leaning against the doorframe.

His dad turns, a little startled, and shuts the water off. “Jesus, give me some _warning_. My heart’s not what it used to be, you know.” He dries off his hands on a towel, looking at him. The hollows under his eyes are dark and he looks bone-tired. It makes Stiles stumble, but he picks himself back up.

“Uh, just a warning, then, Derek’s upstairs.” 

“No canoodling while I’m in the house, understand?” his dad says with a tired sigh. 

“ _Canoodling_?” Stiles snorts. “What does that even _mean_?”

“You know what it means. So don’t do it. My hearing isn’t gone yet.” 

His dad starts to walk past him to head upstairs, but stops instead, yanking him into a hug. A little too tight and quick. He pats Stiles’ cheek after, and it’s _weird_ , kinda. A little too much genuine affection for the light of day. 

“Dibs on the bathroom,” Stiles says, trying to break the moment. It works. 

“ _Fine_. Hurry up. I wanna take a shower before I hit the sack.”

Stiles hops up the stairs. 

He _does_ , actually, have to take a leak, so he does, fast. He and Derek left their clothes in here last night, so it’s a good thing, really that he took the bathroom first. No need to _torture_ his dad. 

Clothes in hand, he leaves, almost running into his dad in the hall. 

He side-steps, and as he heads back to his room, turns. There’s a brownish stain at the bottom of his dad’s shirt. It catches him for a second, that color, enough hesitation that his dad notices, looks at him. Drops his gaze. 

“Go back to Derek,” his dad says, fingers pausing on the doorframe. 

“Yeah. Probably gonna sleep. Long night last night, huh?” It’s not a test, there’s nothing to test, he’s sure of it.

His dad just nods, head hanging low. 

There’s something about it, he’s not sure what, so he waits in the hallway until he hears the water running, the shower curtain sliding back on the rod. Then, keeping to the quieter edges of the hallway, against the wall, he heads to his parents’ room. His dad’s room. 

It’s not like he’s looking for anything. There’s nothing to look for. He just has a weird feeling about his dad. Something’s up.

A smarter person would probably let it be, but he _can’t_.

“What are you doing?” Derek’s voice startles him, even though it’s quiet. He’s wearing a pair of Stiles’ shorts, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Nothing. I’ll be right in, just give me a second.”

Just a last sweep, that’s all he needs. 

It’s all he needs because he sees it, on his dad’s desk in the corner, next to his desktop computer. A small, broken computer chip-looking thing, some sort of plastic, and Stiles pushes past Derek, taking long, fast strides to his room.

He didn’t _see_ anything. It’s all fine. 

Derek crawls into bed with him, and Stiles flips over to face him. 

If he doesn’t ask, he’ll never hear an answer. Maybe that’s the way to go.

That’s the way to go. 

He’s not going to be able to stop thinking about it.

“We could fool around until my dad gets out of the shower?” Stiles offers, slipping an arm around Derek’s waist. 

“Bad idea,” Derek says, and he’s right. “I think we should talk about things. Before we fool around again.” 

“We should put this conversation on hold until later because I think my brain is going to be dead for another few days. Good thing we don’t have anything to do.”

“You’ve got school. Right now, actually,” Derek says, but it’s more off-hand than anything else.

“ _Personal day_. And yes, I’m completely aware that I took a partial personal day yesterday, but I don’t care. Last night was…fuck, I don’t even really want to think about it. I just want to sleep for a year. We’ll figure everything out later.”

 

Three Weeks Later

 

Stiles answers the door only to be greeted by a column of pizza boxes at least a foot taller than him. 

“Come right in,” he says, side-stepping so they have a clear path. _They_ turns out to be Isaac. Scott’s right behind him, a million liter bottles of soda in his arms, head turned over his shoulder as he talks to Allison. She’s got a homemade cake in her hands, as does her father, right behind her. Lydia comes after, kissing the air next to his cheek before breezing by. 

His dad and Scott’s mom are in the main room, setting the table. Stiles kicks the door shut behind him and watches them all try to sort through the pizzas. 

Derek comes out of his new bedroom, swatting at one of the balloons Scott and Stiles had insisted on — _It’s a boy!_ — and looking about a thousand times less overjoyed than Stiles knows he is. It’s like his frowny face gets deeper the happier he gets, and Stiles gets it, he does, that he’s afraid that if he acknowledges everyone as people he cares about, they’ll leave. But he’ll figure out they’re here to stay eventually.

“Come on,” Derek says, taking his hand to pull him over to the table. “If I have to suffer through this, so do you. _Especially_ so do you because this was _your_ idea in the first place.”

Stiles grins, checking out the pizza options. “Dude, millions of Americans have housewarming parties every day.”

“That’s not a real statistic,” he says, and Stiles bats his hand at him.

“It is in the way it counts. Don’t you— Oh, _come on_!” Stiles groans. “Dad, I could literally drown a small child in the amount of grease on that pizza. Put the pepperoni _away_.” 

“I’m _old_. Just allow me this rare joy in my life, for Pete’s sake.”

Melissa deftly takes the plate from him, hands it to Stiles, and says, “Not old yet.” She _winks_ , and Stiles immediately finds Scott’s eyes, and _yep_ , he caught that one. They grin at each other.

It’s a moment or two before everyone’s settled and has food. Stiles is pretty hungry, considering that he spent the whole afternoon making sure everything came together, but he waits before eating, stands, and taps a plastic knife against the side of his red Solo cup. 

It’s not very effective, so he clears his throat _obviously_. 

“I think it’s time somebody made a speech, and since I don’t trust myself to say anything I don’t want to say in front of my dad, I’d like to volunteer my man Scott for it.” Scott rolls his eyes, chewing. “Dude, I’m so serious right now: speech it up.”

“ _Why_?” Scott asks, a little dryly. 

Stiles shrugs. “You’re the alpha dude. That makes you the default speech-giver-guy. I don’t make the rules.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, probably figuring out that Stiles is _so_ not going to back down. Also, Derek’s massive bro-crush on Scott means Stiles is going to do anything he can to get Scott to say nice things about Derek. Because he’s an awesome boyfriend. 

“I’m going to make this short because I’m really frigging hungry,” Scott says, looking at the plastic cup in his hand with something like resignation. “So. I think it’s really cool that we’re all together and I’m glad that Derek’s not really a butt anymore. But he totally cheats at Ghost Ops. He definitely does. But yeah, anyway, Derek, I’m glad you’ve got a cool place without a hole in the wall, and I’m also kind of glad you’re dating my best friend. Even though I _kind of_ thought it was a weird joke at first.”

Stiles smirks as Derek rolls his eyes, squeezes his hand under the table. 

“Is that enough speech for you?” he asks Stiles, who gives him a solid thumbs-up. “Cool. Let’s eat, I guess.”

That’s probably the best suggestion anyone’s had, Stiles figures. Everyone’s pretty freaking on-board, that’s for sure. 

It’s probably the best it’s ever gone, having everyone in one room together. 

He’s sure of that even when Isaac, on his way back from seconds, says, “You know what’s _really_ great? Peter’s not here.” 

Stiles’ snort is about half-fake, and his eyes find Lydia at the other end of the table. She looks pleased with herself, that’s for sure. 

“Maybe he’s gone for good,” she says, and Stiles touches his knee to Derek’s. They’d had a conversation about it, about how he was a dick but he was still family, and really, Derek shouldn’t have been there. But Derek’s alright. Doesn’t even flinch.

Later, when they’ve cut up the cakes (Stiles is _so_ making friends with Chris Argent because _wow_ ), everyone’s fallen into conversation, and it’s _good_. Stiles nudges against Derek, smiling because he knows it’ll make Derek smile back, even just for a second. And he does. 

His dad beat him to the _we can be your family now_ punch about a week ago, but he wants Derek to understand that one day. It’s not perfect by any means, the edges are rough, and it’s not like everyone thinks he’s the shit or anything, but they’ve _accepted_ him. That’s at least something Derek isn’t all that familiar with.

“Okay, random question,” Isaac says, pointing in the air with his fork. “So, whatever happened to Scott’s dad? I’ve been seeing other Feds around, but never him.”

He doesn’t think about why he does it, but he looks at his dad, meets his eyes, and he _knows_. Right then, he knows _exactly_ what happened to Rafa and he can’t pretend he doesn’t anymore. But there’s nothing like regret in his dad’s eyes, just something that makes Stiles want to have a teary hug they’ll never talk about again. 

“I heard he was relocated,” his dad says after just a touch too long. “ _Good riddance_ is all I have to say about that.” 

There’s a flicker of movement, and Stiles sees Scott’s mom look between him and his dad. He’s not sure if she catches it, not sure if she gets it, but he knows she wouldn’t tell if she did. Knows it in his bones. 

 

Later, he’s a little sweaty, pressed up against Derek’s naked back because they’re both pretty into spooning, especially when it’s post-coital. Derek holds Stiles’ hand against his chest, over his heart.

“Thanks for tonight,” he says, sleepy and a little sex-drunk. 

“You deserved it, you know,” Stiles tells him. 

Derek hums at that. 

“My birthday’s coming up, by the way.”

“What do you want?” Derek asks, curling into him further.

“I think it’s time we talked about stuff. Sex stuff. There’s things I need to figure out, and I’d like to figure them out with you, if that’s okay.”

“You sure?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the back of Derek’s neck. “No, I’m just bringing it up because I thought it would be a good joke.”

“It’s serious, that’s all I mean,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear his frown. “It’s kind of all-in at that point. Considering. We don’t have to if you don’t want that.”

“I’m already _all-in_ ,” Stiles tells him. “Little too late for that. You’re stuck with me for a while, at least.”

“I can’t wait.” He’s not sure if that’s meant to be sarcastic or not because it _isn’t_. Not even a little bit. 

“I mean it, though. I really do.”

Derek twists around in his arms to look at him, and for a long moment, that’s just what he does. “I’m all-in, too.” 

 _“Good_ ,” Stiles says, and kisses him until their ends feel like beginnings, until their skin feels like new again.

**Author's Note:**

> i AM going to make a single pdf of this for ppl (it will probably be more edited lol), and if you want updates on that, they will undoubtedly be on my tumblr (majestic-beard) so yeahhhhhhhh. i hope y'all liked it!!


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